The Short-Story Speedwriting Challenge: Save Hogan's Heroes!
by konarciq
Summary: LeBeau is so bored due to the recent lack of missions, that he threatens to escape and start fighting the war elsewhere. Of course we can't have that, so Carter and the others come up with a way to show LeBeau that they're not merely idling their time away in Stalag 13: they're issuing a short-story speedwriting challenge for us, to provide the guys with some new adventures! UPDATE
1. Chapter 1

LeBeau threw down his stirring-spoon in the pan with a clang. "I'm bored."

"What do you mean?" A surprised Carter looked up from his house of cards. "You're cooking dinner, aren't you? I thought you liked cooking."

"I do." LeBeau tore off his white hat. "But that's not what we're here for, is it."

Newkirk raised an eyebrow. "What's with you then, mate?"

"Like I said – I'm bored." LeBeau fell down on the last vacant stool by the table. "I know we've complained before about never catching a break and having two dozen missions to deal with at the same time, but this is ridiculous. There's hardly been a mission for weeks. What... for months!"

"You're daft," Newkirk scoffed, and moved one of his solitaire cards (and sneakily switched it with another one).

"Yeah. At least when there are no missions, we don't get into trouble," Carter chimed in. He placed another card on the wobbly structure, but LeBeau's slamming the table brought the whole thing fluttering down.

"Is that what we're here for? 'Not to get into trouble'? I thought we were fighting a war!"

"Well, we are," Carter said.

"By playing with cards?! I'm cooking, Kinch is listening to Berlin Betty, and Colonel Hogan..." Yeah, where was Colonel Hogan?

"Schmooching with Hilda, I guess," Carter chuckled.

"Yes. But if that's all we're here for, then I quit! I can help to save France a lot better elsewhere than by cooking and hanging around here!"

"He's right, you know," came Kinch's quiet voice from his bunk. "I'm all for staying safe, but this is a bit much. It's like we're regular prisoners."

Carter shrugged. "Well, it's not our fault that the war has been slow around here. No new factories or depots to blow up, no munition trains that need blowing up, no visiting officers to knock off – or their secret plans, no scientists to spy on and blow up, no infiltrators, no flyers to rescue, no experimental rockets to..."

"We get the picture, Carter," Kinch sighed.

"But is that a reason to sit on our bum?" LeBeau challenged.

"Well, what do you want to do about it? Get yourself into trouble deliberately?" Newkirk shook his head. "You're barmy, mate. This war is finally getting to you."

LeBeau jumped up, sending his stool flying. "Fine! You stay here and play cards all you like, but _I've_ got a war to fight!" He stomped back to the stove and tore off his apron. "And you can make your own food from now on, too!" With that, he grabbed his jacket and barret, and stormed outside.

"Oi," Newkirk quipped. "That's bad. I mean, not that I _like_ his French grub, but I hate cooking even more."

"Well, he's right about one thing – it has been awfully quiet lately." Carter started to shuffle the scattered cards into a pile. "You think London has forgotten about us?"

"Not London – the authors," Kinch corrected him.

"Huh?"

"Yeah, who's ultimately responsible for our adventures?" Kinch heaved a sigh. "Remember when we went to court? We sued the authors, not London."

Carter chuckled. "No, London would court-martial us right back."

"Yeah, but what are we going to do about it? We can't let LeBeau escape! We'd have to cook our own dinner!" There was a distinct hint of worry in Newkirk's voice.

"So we'll have to keep him here." Carter's eyes lit up. "Maybe we can go to court again and make the authors write more about us!"

"You're daft – that'd take ages," was Newkirk's opinion. "We need some action around here, and we need it fast! You know what a hothead LeBeau is; he'd escape before we know it!"

"Then maybe we can order the authors ourselves to write more about us?"

"That won't work. They're not in the military – they don't take orders," Kinch pointed out. "Besides, remember that they're practically all women. They'd just be miffed and ignore us even further if we'd try to order them around."

"So we need to lure them into writing about us," Carter decided. "Maybe if we gave them a challenge? A challenge they have to complete within a certain amount of time? That's sure to excite their interest." He was on a roll now. "Perhaps if we give them an opening line for a story – or several ones from which they can choose. And then we tell them they have... say a week to write a story starting with one of those lines. And then..."

"I like the idea," Kinch interrupted. "But one week is too short. Remember that these ladies from the future all have jobs and studies and so forth. They need some time to come up with a decent plot and write it. How about two weeks – you think we can keep LeBeau grounded here for two weeks?"

"Sure. If we promise him we'll have adventures aplenty soon, I'm sure he'll stay. He's part of Hogan's Heroes after all. We _need_ him! So we need to set a date that the stories have to be published, and then we're going to be run off our feet to keep up with all the adventures that day! That'll sure make him change his mind about escaping!"

"Bloody charming..." Newkirk groused. "I'm all for keeping LeBeau here, but does it have to be so stressful?"

"Oh, maybe some of the stories will be nice ones," Carter assured him. "There are always people who write nice stories about us, too, to give us a bit of a breather. And you know what? If we give them a nice incentive to take on the challenge, we might get even more stories! Say we donate a dollar a story to the USO."

"Why not a pound a story to the Flying Nightingales?"

"Wait..." Kinch frowned, and the other two looked at him in anticipation. "These authors, I remember from Fanfic Court that they want to write about us in order to make sure the horrors of this war will not be forgotten."

"Who'd want to remember this rotten prison camp?" Newkirk scoffed.

"That's not the point. We're fighting for a real good cause here: to defeat a guy who thinks his own people are better than everyone else. That seems to have made a pretty big impression if they still remember that seventy years from now. So if we tell them we're going to donate money for that cause for every story they submit..."

Carter beamed. "Then the stories will just come pouring in!"

"Right. So what we need to do first is..."

"... to find some suitable opening lines for starters. How about everyone in this barracks submits one opening line?"

Newkirk grinned. "_It was a dark and stormy night_..."

"Yeah, like that. But then a little more original." Carter scrunched up his face in thought. "Okay. Each of us in this barracks submits one line. By Friday."

"Why Friday?"

A grin. "Because it's the thirteenth. Just for fun." And he continued, "And then we'll publish the challenge on Friday, and also the cause we'll be donating money to. And then the authors have two weeks to write their story (or stories), and we'll tell them to publish them exactly two weeks later – on the 27th. It'll be snowing stories that day!"

"Sounds good," Kinch decided. "So who's going to tell LeBeau?"

* * *

.

_Author's note: Yes, my friends, it's time for the Short-Story Speedwriting Challenge again! Are you with us? And you don't have to send in any opening lines – The Boys of Barracks Two will take care of that themselves. Just make sure you check the site on Friday to find out what this year's opening lines will be from which you can choose. There'll be... 13 of them :-P _

_Sgt. Moffitt has graciously committed herself to make a generous donation for each story posted that complies with the rules of the challenge, so it's more than just the fun of writing and reading that's at stake here. More about the rules and the cause in Friday's update! _


	2. Chapter 2

_And here we are, ladies and gentlemen – the Short-Story Speedwriting Tournament is ready to begin! _

_So how does it work?_

_In the story below, 13 opening lines of old HH fanfics have been used. These 13 lines (which will be listed separately and clearly at the bottom of the chapter) will be the core of this year's challenge.  
To participate in the tournament, you pick __**one of these lines**__ and use it as the **opening line** for a short HH story of your own. You have two weeks to write your story – but don't publish it right away! All stories are to be published on the same day: Friday, June 27__th__. That day, hopefully it will be snowing stories again!  
For every story published that complies with the tournament rules (see below), Sgt. Moffitt has promised to make __**a donation of **__**5 USD to the Holocaust Museum**__ in (?) Washington D.C.  
Additionally, Abracadebra has promised to make a donation, too: for every story published that complies with the rules, she will be making __**a donation of 2 USD to the USO**__.  
If anyone else is game to add a donation based on this tournament to a charity of their own choice, feel free to let us know and we'll add it to the publication! _

_**Update:** Snooky and Rutika have promised to make a **2 USD donation to the Alzheimer's Association** for every story published that complies with the rules! _

_Wow... this tournament is turning into a regular fundraiser...!_

_._

_The tournament has a few simple rules._

_- You can enter as many stories as you want._

_- The story must be __**between 1000 and 5000 words**__ long. FFnet's word count goes._

_- Only exception: lengthy author's notes and verbose disclaimers in order to reach the minimum of 1000 words are not permitted._

_- All official genres are accepted (including crossovers, poetry, M-rated and slash), as long as they comply with the rules. The only type of stories that are *not* acceptable are crackfics (random text with no real plot) and songfics (using someone else's lyrics to fill out your story)._

_- All stories are to be published on FFnet on __**Friday, June 27**__**th**__, or as close to this date as possible. _

_._

_But first: the presentation of our inspirational opening lines!_

_._

* * *

.

"Okay, Carter. If you want to present the participating first lines in story form, then _you_ can write that story!"

Carter smirked. "I don't mind. I like writing stories. But I better do it about us, or LeBeau will find out prematurely for sure!"

So Carter took paper and pencil and...

.

"So you guys know what to do, right? Make contact with the Matchgirl, get the location, pick up the stuff and hightail it back to camp."

"Sure, Colonel." With a cheeky grin, Carter pulled his leather cap askew. "No worries, boy... I mean, sir."

But Newkirk shook his head. "I still think this is a bad idea, Colonel, I mean; what if we get caught?"

The Colonel's mouth tightened. "Kinch will be monitoring the Gestapo frequencies. And if you two aren't back here by 0100 hours, we'll send out a search- and rescue party."

"And try not to hook up with any Gestapo girls, will you?" Kinch admonished.

Newkirk wanted to give him a properly peppered rebuttal, but the Colonel forestalled a new fight on the topic. "Alright, time to go. Addison?"

Addison, whose bunk was the closest to the lightswitch, turned off the dimmed light, and immediately, the four men by the door were plunged in darkness.

"Good luck," Hogan wished them, and fumbled for the doorknob. The door Barracks Two opened slowly, very slowly. No guard in sight in the immediate vicinity. And the searchlight's path had just passed them – the perfect moment to sneak out.

One, two shadows stealthily left the relative safety of the barracks. Quickly, they moved from barracks to barracks, ducking behind barrels whenever they could. But they made it safely to the wire, helped one another to roll under it in between the regular illumination from the searchlights, and out of camp they were.

They snuck into the woods unnoticed, and sought their way among the trees. But all of a sudden... The smell struck Sergeant Andrew Carter so suddenly that he came to a halt in the middle of the woods. "Newkirk," he whispered. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That... that _smell_."

Newkirk sniffed the air. "Probably a skunk with a gas problem. Now come on, or we're going to miss our date with the Matchgirl."

Carter let it rest. He just held his nose and followed his friend down the familiar trail to the Hammelburg Road, and from there on to town. Their destination tonight was the Hauserhof Hotel, located on the Marktplatz in the centre of the old town. It was a majestic, yet friendly building, and it was with a gleam of expectation that Newkirk pushed open the door. After all, no matter how bad the mission turned out, beer was still beer.

Carter followed him inside. The Hauserhof, one of Hammelburg's oldest taverns, was especially busy for a weeknight. And the two of them were lucky to find a little table by the wall. "Zwei Bier, bitte," Newkirk ordered with the ugly young waitress, and then they had time to look around. Somewhere in this taproom annex dining-room, they were to meet the Matchgirl. But who could it be?

"I bet she's young and gorgeous," Newkirk predicted. "All Underground women are – soft, feminine, blond – no, dark, and the curves as if they've been ordered from a postorder catalogue..."

"Maybe it's the waitress," Carter suggested.

But Newkirk snorted. "That vixen? If that's our poor little Matchgirl, then...!"

"Maybe she couldn't see what she was doing this morning when she was applying her make-up." Carter always tried extenuate things. "There must've been something wrong with the mirror."

"Yeah – totally cracked."

They sat and talked for a while, and drank their beers. And listened to the talk around them to try and pick up the presence of their contact. It was all very nice and 'gemütlich', until some officer at the bar exclaimed, "Sixteen dozen eggs!"

Every eye turned in his direction.

"Sixteen dozen eggs, imagine that!" The man took a swig from his drink.

"That's about twohundred of them," Carter muttered to himself.

Newkirk raised an eyebrow. "What would anyone want with twohundred eggs?"

Carter chuckled. "Scramble them? Start a chicken farm perhaps?"

The officer was still hollering about his eggs, and if you were capable of lipreading in German, you might be able to pick up that his aide whispered discreetly, "What seems to be the problem, Colonel?"

"It's those bloody Ruskies!" the half drunken officer bellowed. "You know what they fired at us in the last war? Eggs! Sixteen dozen of them – and rotten they were, too!"

Newkirk grinned. "Pity. No pancakes for breakfast then."

"Oh, my Greataunt Nelly could do wonders with eggs. Her eggnog especially was famous around our town. You know, I bet they've got the ingredients here. After all, Greataunt Nelly's parents migrated to the U.S. from Germany." Carter already got up. "I'll go and ask. I'm sure you'll love it, Newkirk."

"Ho, wait...!" Newkirk straightened up in alarm, but Carter was already at the bar next to the eggbeaten Colonel, placing his crazy order. Oh well – he could only die once.

He returned with two glasses filled with a pale yellow cream. "Here." He put them down on the table. "Try this, Newkirk."

Newkirk looked at it with deep suspicion. "What is it?"

"My Greataunt Nelly's special recipe: eggnog Hamburger art."

Newkirk's eyes grew wide. "Eggnog with hamburger?!"

"No." Carter chuckled. "'Hamburger art' means that it's made the way they make it in Hamburg. Go on – try it. I'm sure you'll like it."

Newkirk sighed. There were quite a few things in life that he knew not to do. And drinking suspicious Yankee brews was one of them. But knowing Carter, he'd never get out of taking at least one sip, so he picked up the glass, studied and sniffed it for a moment, squeezed his eyes shut and ready for anything, he took a tiny little sip.

Carter watched him expectantly, but Newkirk still hadn't opened his eyes. "So how do you like it?" he prompted eagerly.

Newkirk swallowed with difficulty and looked up. "Cor blimey, that stuff is not for the weak-hearted!" He sniffed the content of his glass once more and took another little sip. "But I got to hand it to you, mate – your grandma Nelly sure knew how to mix a cocktail. It tastes surpisingly good!"

They continued sipping their eggnogs 'Hamburger art' and time passed. But no one approached them as a possible matchsalesman (or –woman). No one in the crowd even came close to a resemblance to a poor starving matchgirl.

"You know," Carter mumbled when in the end he reluctantly drained the last drops of his eggnog. "It's getting pretty late. I think she couldn't make it."

"A damned shame," Newkirk agreed, and he threw back the last of his cocktail as well. "We better get going then, or we won't make it back in time."

They paid for their drinks and began to seek their way through the crowd towards the exit. But they had only gotten some five meters outside, when Newkirk grabbed Carter's arm. "Look!" he brought out under his breath.

Carter saw it, too. From the portico of the building next to the hotel were two legs stretched out into the street. Two _female_ legs.

"You think she's dead?" Carter breathed.

But no. Her legs twitched, as she lay sleeping on her side. And a faint snore was audible if you listened for it and the door of the Hauserhof was closed.

Newkirk of course squatted down by her side. "Can't leave her lying like this," he mumbled. "Can't have Hochstetter come racing around the corner in that flashy black staff car of his and shatter those beautiful legs..."

He took the pretty girl – of course it was a _pretty_ girl – in his arms and tried to move her further into the portico. But what do you know – the girl suddenly jerked upright and burst out, "Please, sir, will you buy my matches?"

The recognition code!

So Newkirk replied cautiously, "Maybe. If you can tell me where your grandmother is?"

"She's gone with Herr Andersen." Yes, that was the correct reply. "How many boxes do you want? One for a penny, or two for a pound?"

"We'll take three for a dime, if that's alright with you." The exchange – three boxes of matches with a hidden compartment for the latest military plans, for a folded banknote with a request for info on the nearest Panzer divisions – took place, and then Newkirk helped the young lady to her feet.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I must have fallen asleep while I was waiting for you. The work in the new ball-bearing plant is absolutely exhausting."

"Oh yeah?" Carter's eyes lit up. "Where is that plant?"

"The info is in one of the matchboxes," the girl replied. "Just let me know when you're planning something, okay? So I can make sure to call in sick that shift."

"Sure." Newkirk couldn't keep his eyes off her, even in the dark.

"I better get going," the Matchgirl decided. "Oh, but I have one more thing for you." She pushed a newspaper or something in Carter's hands. "It's dangerous for me to have this, but I thought you Amerikaner might like to read it." With that, she quickly walked off and disappeared around the corner.

"Come on, we better get going," Newkirk decided.

Carter put the magazine under his coat and fell into step beside him, and soon, the two friends were heading down the Hammelburg Road again. Until... "Did you hear that?" Carter asked, pausing and looking back over his shoulder.

Newkirk sighed. "I hear nothing – _nothing_. Now come on."

"No, wait. There it is again. Plop... plop. See?"

"No, I _don't_ see it. Now will you move it before the Krauts catch us here?"

Once again, Carter reined in his curiosity and followed Newkirk until they reached the secret fence of Stalag 13. They ducked down behind a few bushes, to determine where in its pattern the searchlight was. It came over once... twice...

"Hey, look at that!" Carter suddenly exclaimed. Impatient as he was, he had pulled out the magazine the Matchgirl had given him, and was looking at its front page by the passing light of the searchlight.

But, "Keep your mouth shut!" Newkirk hissed.

But Carter was way too excited. "It isn't true after all! This I got to tell the Colonel!" And before Newkirk could stop him, he jumped up, ran to the fence, wormed his way in (miraculously unnoticed) and dashed over to Barracks Two.

"What the heck...!" Newkirk muttered.

But there was no yelling, no shooting, no alarm, no dogs barking... Apparently, the simple touch of Carter's mad dash had been successful.

It had indeed. Carter burst through the door of the barracks, carrying what looked to be a magazine of some sorts and stopped in front of the table, out of breath. "Colonel," he panted. "It isn't true!"

"What isn't true?" a rudely awakened LeBeau barked.

"The bank...! It hasn't foreclosed on Mary Noble after all!"

* * *

.

_So what are the opening lines to choose from this year? From hundreds and hundreds of opening lines to old HH fanfics here on the site, Snooky and I chose these ones for the tournament's inspiration:_

_._

_* Carter burst through the door of the barracks, carrying what looked like a magazine of some sorts and stopped in front of the table, out of breath._

_* "Did you hear that?" Carter asked, pausing and looking back over his shoulder._

_* Her legs twitched, as she lay sleeping on her side._

_* "I still think this is a bad idea, Colonel, I mean; what if we get caught?"_

_* Plop... plop._

_* "Sixteen dozen eggs!"_

_* The door of Barracks Two opened slowly, very slowly._

_* The Hauserhof, one of Hammelburg's oldest taverns, was especially busy for a weeknight._

_* The smell struck Sergeant Andrew Carter so suddenly that he came to a halt in the middle of the woods._

_* There must've been something wrong with the mirror._

_* There were quite a few things in life that he knew not to do._

_* "Try this, Newkirk."_

_* "What seems to be the problem, Colonel?"_

_._

_So take your pick, get ready, set and write and let it snow stories on Friday the 27__th__! _

_(And my apologies for the late hour of publication (it's actually already the 14__th__ over here), but I really wanted to see Holland beat the reigning world champion Spain in soccer this evening: 5-1! :-) At last we got our revenge from losing the final from them in 2010...)  
_


	3. Chapter 3

_Okay, tomorrow is the big day, and here a final update!_

_First of all, we've now got FOUR charities that are going to benefit from our tournament.  
_

_* ** 80sarcades** has promised to donate **3 USD per qualifying story to Operation Homefront**, a military charity._

_* **Snooky and Rutika** have promised to donate **2 USD per qualifying story to the Alzheimer's Association**._

_And we already had:_

_* **Abracadebra** who has promised to donate **2 USD per qualifying story to the USO**._

_* And **Sgt. Moffitt** who has promised to donate **5 USD per qualifying story to the Holocaust Museum**._

_Wow... This thing is turning into a major fundraiser!_

* * *

_Then a little news for those of you who don't follow the forum (you're missing something, really...) It was pointed out there that some authors may not be happy with us using their first line in the tournament. Thanks to 80sarcades, all these old-time authors have been contacted, and so far, we've had a positive answer back from 8 out of 10 of them. The two authors we haven't been able to reach (they have disabled their PM function) have been alerted by a review to that particular story; hopefully if they do object to us using the line, at least they've been notified and if necessary, we should be able to come to an understanding. (Like making a very minor alteration to the lines in question.) But for now, it seems safe to use the lines we had selected as they are. _

_But it would be the polite thing to do indeed if we could all acknowledge the original author of our opening lines in an author's note with our story. So here is the info you need for that:_

_- _There must've been something wrong with the mirror._ - **Accidental Truths, by Tuttle4077**_

- "I still say this is a bad idea, Colonel, I mean; what if we get caught?" - _**Risky Business, by Bits and Pieces**_

- "Sixteen dozen eggs!" - _**A Tisket A Tasket, by ML Miller Breedlove**_

- Her legs twitched, as she lay sleeping on her side. - _**Ursa Minor, by Nina Stephens**_

- Carter burst through the door of the barracks carrying what looked to be a magazine of some sorts and stopped in front of the table, out of breath. - _**The Revenge of the Plot Bunny, by AGroovie1**_

- The Hauserhof, one of Hammelburg's oldest taverns, was especially busy for a week night. - _**Brothers in Arms, by Zoey Traner**_

- "Did you hear that?" Carter asked, pausing and looking back over his shoulder. - _**The Good Samaritan, by Zoey Traner**_

_- _There were quite a few things in life that he knew not to do._ - **Tuttle's A Series of Highly Unfortunate Events, by Tuttle4077**_

- "Try this, Newkirk." -_** The Hogan's Heroes Duck Shoot, by Atarah Derek**_

- The smell struck Sergeant Andrew Carter so suddenly that he came to a halt in the middle of the woods. - _**Love Sprung from Hate, by Oboecrazy**_

_- _Plop… plop_. - **Gone Fishing, by ML Miller Breedlove**_

- "What seems to be the problem, Colonel?" - _**Brother's Keeper, by wordybirds**_

_- _The door of Barracks Two opened slowly, very slowly._ - **Trials of Friendship, by marilynusca**  
_

_._

_So if we could all acknowledge the author whose line we used for our story? (And perhaps - once we've read everything that's published for the tournament, go and check out the stories the lines were taken from? Believe me, not everything that's old is by definition bad! _

* * *

_And then a general answer to a question I got: from the time that the 27th begins where Dust lives to where it turns the 28th where (among others) Mmwaveprincess lives is something like 40 hours. I hope that's sufficient opportunity for everyone to publish their story (or stories) on the 27th. Like with the PBA - as long as it's the 27th *somewhere* on this planet, your entry will still count! (So technically, I believe you can already start posting them, since in Australia it must be in the early hours of the morning by now :-) If you're experiencing problems with this, let us know and we'll figure out a way to solve it! _

_Can't wait till tomorrow and see what you guys have come up with!  
_


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